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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


10.30.01

Oh these days find ourselves so rumpled, conversation unfolds disjointed. We are paper fragile and crumpled, origami gone awry.

Today I wonder, Black swan or white raven?

The further I delve into the realm of ideas, the more troublesome I find my long-neglected body. A strange and slippery thing, this body requires sustenance, heartbeat and heartbreak. No, it is not a world of dry print, ink-stain bodies, collected sounds unraveling via film. My hips still sway, despite myself, and my breasts wax heavier with each new day. I wait for clots of blood floating in a toilet bowl, the involuntary and necessary flow, release like a violent, sudden exhalation of breath.

Meanwhile, everything I read blurs together: all rumor and testimony, awkward theory. Forgive me for the temporary dislocation, the lapse of coherent and cohesive thought. My seams are coming apart again.






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